Untouchable
by Simone Robinson
Summary: "He ghosted his fingertips across the white of the silk. He tangled his fist around it, gripping it tightly. Then he let it fall from his fingertips, smoothing it down, as if nothing had ever happened. The silk was smooth, without a wrinkle, without an inkling or hint of its rough treatment. It was perfect. It was unmoved." What happens when a warrior is pushed too far?


**N/B: Just a character study of sorts. Reviews are always very appreciated and wanted. :) Thank you for reading.**

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**Untouchable**

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His fingers felt stiff and cold as they gripped the stone in a vice. He drew it across the blade, long and smooth. It was the movement of power, the movement of lies, gliding and easy and dangerous. So very dangerous. His fingertips tightened around the hilt of the blade until his knuckles turned white with pressure. He gripped it tighter.

The stone felt rough in his hand, pressing against his palm. He had lost track of how long he had sat here. He had started hours ago, working the metal until it was perfect, until he was ready, and yet, the stone still felt cold in his hand. It was icy and hard- something that would never thaw or give way. He had been like that once. But that was a long time ago. Now all he got were fragments of a soul that withdrew to save itself pain.

Weakness. Feeling pain that tore your soul was weakness, it was failure, it was giving into something and giving up your control. It was giving up and Leonardo never gave up. Leonardo was nothing if not untouchable. Untouchable. The weight of his swords hung on his shell, pulling down against the muscles of his shoulders. They ached with tension, with weight, yet he refused to relinquish his blades. What was a warrior without his swords? What was a warrior without his weapons?

Then again, what was he after everything?

Shame rose in his throat, making it impossible to swallow. It seemed to fill him up, poison his every movement and leave him pained and tense. It stiffened his limbs like a poison. His vision blurred and for a moment, all he saw was the darkness of his sins. His jaw was tight and he could feel the strain as he dropped the stone onto the mat. He grabbed his cloth and ran it across the metal. For a moment, he almost hoped that he would slip. If he slipped, he would have a reason.

Just one more reason to add to a long list. Just one more reason to end the shame. He pushed the agony from his heart. He did not hurt, he did not let himself feel vulnerable. The demons in his head meant nothing because he was strong enough to face them. He had been strong enough until now. He could go a little longer. What was a little more, after all?

The metal gleamed and, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of his eyes in the shine. They were red, and he narrowed them. Exhaustion. Exhaustion and nothing more. He had been working fiercely of late, and his body must be feeling it. That was all. That and nothing more. He rubbed the skin between his eyes with a harsh touch and slid his hands down his face, scrubbing away the grit of life.

He dropped his hand and turned his head, the action an impossible effort. But it was a comfort, none the less, to feel the bone ache, to push until he found some kind of comfort. He did not have to look far. He stared at the kimono which was folded beside him, the woven white. It was pure, untainted. White was the colour of perfection, honour, death. He ghosted his fingertips across the white of the silk. For an instant, he tangled his fist amongst it, gripping it tightly. Then he let it fall from his fingertips, smoothing it down, as if nothing had ever happened. The silk was smooth, without a wrinkle, without an inkling or hint of its rough treatment. It was perfect. It was unmoved.

He let out a breath and set them down, each action full of an instinctive kind of reverence. He wasn't feeling much anymore. He picked up the blade, unable to remember even putting it down. He held it in his hands, staring at it for what seemed like an eternity.

It was sharp, it was strong, and it could cut through anything without a hitch. No matter how tough or strong. No matter how scarred. It would do its job with honour and precision. It would not fail.

The moment stretched on for an eternity, the sight of the blade intoxicating, addictive. It made his head spin and filled him with a heady rush that sent tingles of fear through his heart. _Not like this._ This would do no more good in rectifying the world. This would cause nothing but discord. He could go a little more.

With reluctant fingers, he slipped the tanto into his sheath and returned it to its stand with a bow. Packing away the silks, he turned, feeling the old familiarity of guards as they drew up around his spirit. They were weak and new, as shaky as a new born, but over time, they would grow hard again.

He would be as untouchable as everyone thought he was. But first, he needed a drink.


End file.
